Plague
by pseudo-vulture
Summary: As an unknown force starts turning the world into the living dead, John and Sherlock struggle to survive. (Sorry, awful summary) (Rating for violence, occasional language and the other sorts of things you associate with zombies.)
1. The Beginning Of The End

**AN: I do apologise for this. It started off as a tiny baby plot-bunny and has quickly mutated into a fully-fledged plot-cthulhu. And as usual I have barely any idea where it's going, I just needed to get the ideas down. Also any and all OCs that may be used at any point in this fic will be red-shirts and zombie fodder with no real importance to the plot. Post-Reichenback.**

* * *

"It all started with some weird news reports..."

The screen flashed off.

"Oi, Sherlock, I was watching that!" John said.

"Boring."

"Well, they don't write for people like you, Sherlock." John said, turning around.

Sherlock was stood by the door covered in blood again. John looked around for the harpoon but couldn't see it.

"Oh my god, Sherlock, what have you done?!" He yelled.

"Nothing!" Sherlock snapped. His voice sounded shaken. Barely anything could startle Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock," John whispered. "What's going on?"

The detective opened his mouth as if to say something clever then closed it again, gesturing hopelessly. "I don't know. But I don't think you'll need to watch The Walking Dead any more, John."

John heard banging on the door downstairs and stood up slowly, walking to the window.

A group of people were clawing at the door. John opened the window with a creak and they all looked up. John staggered back.

They weren't people at all. Their eyes were clouded over and the skin hung loosely from their faces, already half decayed.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, John?"

"There are zombies outside our flat." He said flatly.

"What an amazing deduction, John, I hadn't noticed!" Sherlock snapped, exasperated.

"Is that blood all theirs?" John said quietly.

"None of its mine, if that's what you mean. They didn't get close enough to bite me." He looked down at his shirt with a vaguely disgusted expression. "Where's Mrs Hudson?"

"She went out to get some milk. Listen, Sherlock..."

"We have to go and find her. And Molly." Sherlock interrupted. "Get your gun, John."

"How is my gun going to help against an _army of zombies_?!"

Sherlock shrugged slightly and John saw the glint in his eyes had dulled the same way they had before he'd jumped from the roof of St Bart's. That was a barely disguised look of defeat. "I don't know." He paused thoughtfully. "Have you seen my harpoon?"

"What?"

"I can't kill anything with a riding crop and Lestrade took my gun. Wait," he rushed over to his chair and reached underneath, producing a machete.

John gaped.

"What?"

"No-one keeps a /machete/ under... Oh, never mind." John pulled his jacket on.

"You coming then?" Sherlock smirked at the new challenge, walking towards the door in his usual cocky way, not caring what was on the other side of the door.

* * *

Lestrade slammed the door of the doctor's office shut and leant on it. The sickening sounds the zombies made filtered through it and the thin plaster walls. The screams had stopped before they'd even got in here. They were the only ones left alive now and the building had been locked down.

Sally Donovan was stood next to the desk, shocked and speechless. "What… What happened to them?"

"I don't know!" he snapped, sliding to the floor, his head falling into his hands. "I... Don't... Know."

He did know. But he also knew it wasn't possible. Zombies? They didn't exist. Zombies in _London_? Only in Shaun Of The Dead.

No-one had told the ones scratching on the door that, though.

Lestrade and Donovan's phones went off simultaneously.

'_Don't go near the hospitals. Too dangerous. SH_' The identical text messages read.

"That isn't helping now!" Donovan yelled, slamming her fists against the desk desperately.

Lestrade didn't reply. He hadn't been trained for this. He didn't know what to do. What they did in the films he'd seen late at night between breaks in the football were all fine and good but would they even work on these things? This wasn't possible, it couldn't be.

The phones buzzed again._ 'Get to Baker Street. Urgent. SH.'_

Lestrade tugged at his greying hair. Too late. They'd never get out of here, they probably couldn't even get very far from the hospital before they were caught. He almost started to laugh at this ridiculous predicament until he realised how hysterical he would sound. But he couldn't help it.

Greg Lestrade wasn't supposed to die here. He was a detective inspector. He was supposed die thirty, maybe forty, years from now of old age. He was supposed to die somewhere on the streets of London, killed by some stupid murder suspect with a gun. Not eaten by zombies.

He gave up and let himself laugh.

Donovan stared at him. "Are you ok?"

"Yeah, just great. I'm locked in the office of a man who's probably been killed by now waiting to be eaten alive by _zombies!_ I'm fine!" He said, still laughing, getting increasingly more hysterical the more he thought about it.

"Move." Donovan said, starting to push the heavy desk towards the door.

"What are you doing?"

"This'll give us a bit more time, won't it?" She shrugged. "Maybe we can think of a plan."

"Sally, I don't know if you've noticed but there are _zombies _outside. The living dead! Walkers! There won't be anywhere left to go to!"

"We have to try, don't we?" Donovan yelled.

Lestrade's phone started ringing. His ex-wife. Why would she be calling him? Shouldn't she be calling that bastard he'd walked in on her with?

"What?" He said harshly, his laughter suddenly ending.

"There're these _things_ outside! I thought they were people but... Jesus, Greg, I don't know what to do! Paul went outside and... They attacked him. He's just lying there. They're _eating_ him! Help me!"

"I'm stuck inside a bloody hospital! What do you expect me to do?!" _Why would you think I'd help you anyway_? he thought, silently fuming.

"I thought..."

"You thought wrong! I'm a detective inspector, not... Not Van Helsing!"

There was a crash. "Oh god Greg... They've got in. Greg, what do I do?"

Lestrade flinched, feelings he didn't know he still had bubbling into his throat.

"Hide." He managed uselessly.

There were a few more crashes then the sound of her dropping the phone. A few seconds later there was a scream and disruption crackled through as the phone was stood on.

Lestrade froze, blinking slowly.

"Are you ok, Greg?" Donovan asked again, sounding worlds away from him.

"I have a plan, Sally." He whispered, standing up and starting to move the desk from the door again.

"Ok, great. What is it?"

"I'm going to distract the ones outside. You're going to run. Find Sherlock and John. They'll probably know what to do more than me."

"Find the freak? What kind of plan is that?!"

"Got any better ideas? At least one of us might survive this way."

"There's got to be a better way than this."

"Yeah, we could both die." Lestrade pulled his jacket straight and grabbed the door handle. "Get ready to run."

Donovan tried to protest but Lestrade opened the door, pushing past the creatures and yelling for their attention before they started to chase him. Before he turned to run, he flashed Donovan one last tired smile. Donovan was frozen in place for a moment. As soon as Lestrade had turned a corner in the corridor, she started running in the opposite direction. Find the freak. Maybe he _would_ know what to do.


	2. The Dead Travel Fast

**Look at me writing chapters more than 300 words long! Sorry, it's just a bit of a novelty to be honest, I'm terrible at chapter lengths.**

**CHARACTER DEATH WARNING from this chapter onwards. Nothing too descriptive in this specific chapter but there will be worse.**

**Bit of a warning: There will be pairings mentioned in the future but not many of those ideas have really been written yet.**

**Rodney Titwhistle and The Legacy Board aren't mine, they belong to Nick Harkaway. They're in here because I think Mycroft would thoroughly loathe both the man and the organisation. I'm just borrowing them, as with the Sherlock characters. Chapter title is a song by POLAR.**

* * *

Sherlock quickly went through all the people he cared even slightly about. John was stood right next to him as they cautiously walked down the spookily empty London streets. Lestrade and the few people he actually gave a damn about at New Scotland Yard could look after themselves. Irene was safe somewhere in one of the southern states of America; plenty of guns there and it wasn't like The Woman couldn't look after herself. Mycroft was probably locked in some government bunker by now with all of the others who thought they were in charge of something, waiting until it was safe to come out and declare victory. The only people left were Molly and Mrs Hudson, who they were going to find.

He and John crouched behind a crashed car as more of the zombies dragged themselves past. They seemed to travel in packs, not alone, which Sherlock found interesting. Even after death these creatures clung to the same pointless conformism they had in life. Idiots.

He vaguely wondered in the back of his mind if Anderson was one of them now and, if he was, if Sherlock would even notice the difference. He smirked.

"What're you so happy about?" John hissed.

"Anderson zombie."

John stifled a giggle. "What would change?"

"Maybe a dead Anderson would be more intelligent."

John had to cover his mouth to stop himself from laughing. It wasn't that funny but his mind needed to find some kind of escape from the horrifying reality in front of him. "Shut up, Sherlock, we can't laugh at people dying."

"Never stopped us before." Sherlock said pointedly.

"Yeah but then they weren't getting up and trying to eat us."

Sherlock shrugged and started to run, followed a moment later by John. It was better to stick to the rooftops, Sherlock quickly decided, jumping onto a fire escape. There would be less of the dead up there and it gave them a better view of what was going on. Mrs Hudson first; she was closest. Take her back to 221b then find Molly. In Sherlock's mind, he saw the shop she always went to and the route she always took and changed direction.

"Wait!" John yelled and Sherlock turned.

"What?" He said indignantly.

John pointed down at the street. A woman was running away from three zombies, dodging between the lines of motionless cars. Not just any woman. Sally Donovan.

"Leave her. She's annoying."

"She'll die!"

"So will Mrs Hudson if we won't get a move on!" Sherlock snapped. 'If she isn't dead already' a much hated voice in the back of his mind said.

John glared at him and ran to the fire escape on the side of the building.

"Oh for god sake." Sherlock muttered, following him.

* * *

_Several hours earlier_

_"You cannot simply hide the royal family and all important cabinet members and their friends, family and assistants in a bunker. When you all come out alive, the people will wonder why you couldn't save them and their families. There will be a revolution."_

_"We'll see about that when we get to it." Said Rodney Titwhistle, the absolute _idiot_ in charge of the proceedings. How had he even risen this high? Mycroft made a mental note to have him killed and his 'Legacy Board' demolished the second this madness was over._

_Mycroft mentally counted to ten and took a deep breath. "You can't honestly be that _stupid_?"_

_He became aware that he was beginning to sound as arrogant as his brother. If this was the only way he'd get his point across, he'd stick to it. He'd tried being reasonable._

_"You have to leave at least a few people behind, or there will be questions, an enquiry, _riots_."_

_"You know, that's a very wise idea, Mr Holmes." The man said, apparently trying reasonable now. "Guards, escort Mr Holmes and Anthea out. They obviously have no desire to be here."_

_Mycroft glared at Titwhistle. "You have just made an enemy, Rodney. It's almost a pity you won't live to regret it." He smirked knowingly, holding back a growl. He turned on his heel and walked away before the soldiers could get anywhere near him, Anthea following, almost having to jog to keep up._

_Now_

They'd been running around like fools for what felt like years but was in fact just a few hours. They'd had to abandon the car in a traffic jam when the zombies were getting too close.

Mycroft had thought they might actually have got back to his home, a place they could defend, when they'd been ambushed. Anthea had killed as many as she could and Mycroft had shot the rest but it had been too late. She'd been bitten so many times.

And now Anthea was dead. She'd died in his arms as he tried in vain to stop the bleeding, not caring about her blood staining his suit. It was too late to worry about appearances. The intelligent, attractive young woman with such a bright future in Mycroft's covert world was gone. But now she was stood up again. The freshly inflicted wounds on her head and neck were no longer bleeding, her hair was plastered to her ruined face by drying blood. Her eyes were a pure, evil white. She growled at Mycroft, a harrowing sound even to him, and started to stagger quickly towards him.

Mycroft Holmes didn't hold back his snarl. This was, by far, the worst day of his life. It surpassed every unplanned war, every terrorist attack and every random assassination. The man who had managed to run most of the world from behind a curtain had nothing for this situation.

Well, he had one last trick.

Mycroft pulled the rapier from his umbrella and pointed it at the creature who'd once been his faithful assistant.

"Goodbye Anthea." He whispered sadly, cutting her head off.

* * *

Lestrade wasn't sure why, but as he'd hung up the phone he'd felt crushing grief. For that bitch. She was dead. It was almost unreal.

Hearing her die had put things in perspective and made the detective inspector face his own mortality. Surely it was better for him to get it over with now than wait months, maybe even years, in a post apocalyptic hellhole to eventually and inevitably be eaten by these monsters? He hadn't said that to Sally. She didn't have to know he'd given up. Let her remember a copper, not a coward.

Before he'd started running, he hadn't known how fast these things could be, faster than the ones in the films he'd seen. Lestrade was getting tired. He'd run down the emergency staircase and they'd followed him, only a bit slower. Several fell from their lack of co-ordination and the others crushed their already dead bodies in an attempt to get closer to their prey.

Lestrade jumped down the last few steps and fell through the doors into the hospital foyer, slamming them shut and hearing the automatic lock activate. He leant against the door, gasping for breath despite the stench of accelerated decay so strong in the air he could taste it.

Lestrade looked up slowly.

"Oh shit." He whispered, frozen to the spot.

More of them were in here. Lestrade didn't know why he was surprised, he'd seen them come in here before they'd hidden up in the doctor's office. The doors at the other side of the long foyer were barricaded shut from the outside, the soldiers he'd seen before not wanting the dead to escape. At the moment the monsters were clustered around the body of a nurse, clawing at the corpse and each other for food.

Lestrade barely dared breath as he looked for another way out. Maybe he was wrong, maybe he didn't really want to die that much. The sight of the monsters... Shit. He didn't want to be eaten. He _really_ didn't want to be turned into one of those bastards.

This was a hospital for god sake! There had to be a fire escape that wasn't blocked. He hoped Sally had found a way out. Although he and the younger sergeant didn't always agree on things but he didn't think he could handle the thought of her dead or worse, as a zombie.

He straightened up and evened out his still-ragged breathing, thanking whatever god might be out there that they hadn't noticed him yet.

Lestrade knelt on his hands and knees and crawled behind the chairs towards a door. There at least had to be a window somewhere for him to escape through. He managed to get to the nearest set of doors. Through the tiny window he could see daylight through the window on the opposite side if the room and sighed with relief as he leant on the doors.

Locked.

No, they couldn't be locked. What kind of idiot would spend time locking doors when _this_ was happening? Lestrade leant all his weight on the doors but nothing. He almost yelled but remembered the zombies behind him.

He turned nervously. They were still fighting over the nurses body, thank god. The second he thought that, he resented himself for it. She had been an innocent civilian, a bystander, she hadn't deserved it.

Lestrade knelt down again, fighting soul-crushing disappointment, and crawled to the next door.

Open. It led into a corridor, various other doors leading off into other rooms. One of these had to have a window. He was going to get out of here alive. He had to. he couldn't bare to think about the alternative.


	3. Fragments and Fear

**Sorry that this is a bit late, I got kind of annoyed by how it was written and had to redo half the chapter and then I went to see Star Trek Into Darkness and died so I was unable to complete it...**

**I'm under the impression that Anderson is, like, one of the coroner people so his tiny bit is based in that assumption. If it's wrong, just call it poetic licence; this is already a major AU anyway.**

**Warnings for blood and stuff. Again.**

* * *

John was halfway down the fire escape when Donovan tripped and fell.

He put a bullet in the head of all three of the zombies about to attack her, spraying her with zombie blood, and not stopping running until he was next to her.

"Are you ok?"

"Yeah." She said breathlessly. "Where's the freak?"

"Sergeant Donovan, so nice to see you too." Sherlock said poisonously, jumping down the last few steps of the fire-escape and standing next to John. "She's alive, John, I hope you're happy. I don't care if the next person we see running is the damn queen, we're going to get Mrs Hudson now."

John nodded.

"Where are you going?" Donovan asked.

"Don't you ever pay attention?" Sherlock said, glaring at her.

"I heard but it's not safe! I just had to run all the way here! The zombies are everywhere!"

"We have weapons." John shrugged.

"What am I supposed to do?" Donovan yelled desperately as the detective and the doctor started back towards the fire escape.

John took a set of keys from his pocket and threw it to her. "Lock the doors when you get in. Maybe put the kettle on. I need a cup of tea already."

Donovan nodded, stunned into silence as she watched them run up the fire escape and over the rooftops.

Sherlock scowled at John when the doctor caught him up. "Why did you have to do that?"

"Do what?"

"Invite _her_."

"This isn't a party, Sherlock, this is the end of the world. We need to stick together."

"I understand that," he paused. "But Sally Donovan? Of all the people we could have found first?"

John shook his head. "Just keep running Sherlock, the sooner we get back to the flat, the better."

The detective nodded, changing direction again and leaping onto yet another roof, John only seconds behind.

* * *

Lestrade crept down the corridor, not daring to run in case he made a noise. He didn't know if there were more of the zombies down here. He couldn't hear them but that didn't mean there weren't any.

All of this had happened so quickly there was unlikely to be a locked room full of the rest of them like in the first episode of The Walking Dead.

Most of the doors in the corridor just led to more dark, windowless, cell-like offices. He wondered how John and Anderson could bare to work in these places. They were so depressing, even without the fear that an army of the undead could be hidden behind each door. Not that Anderson or John would even be alive by now, he supposed. The creatures were bound to have got at least one of them by now.

He padded towards the next door and peered through the tiny piece of glass in the door.

A window!

Lestrade tried the door. Locked.

But this wasn't a fire door like the others. This was just a regular old piece of wood with hinges. Lestrade took a few steps back then took a running kick at the door, splintering it open. He grinned. He wasn't as useless as Sherlock always said he was, even if the smug bastard did somehow manage to keep stealing his badges.

Too ecstatic at the thought of escape to check the room, Lestrade ran to the window. He was unlocking it with the key someone had so conscientiously left in the lock when he heard the noise, a rough groan from behind him.

Lestrade turned, arms raised defensively, seconds before the zombie would have sunk it's already-rotting teeth into the back of his head.

Instead the monster bit right into Lestrade's left arm and the detective inspector let out a strangled scream of agony. He tried to shake the dead man off but the vice-like grip of the jaws around his forearm just got tighter. Blood was pouring freely onto the plastic tiles and sparks of light, of pain, flashed into Lestrade's eyes. He collapsed backwards onto the desk as it pushed him back, the zombie still not letting go, and picked up the first thing that came to hand: a heavy glass trophy for some medical achievement.

Lestrade slammed the award into the zombie's head with all his quickly ebbing strength, knocking the corpse off his arm. He smashed it into the creature's skull again, finally damaging enough to re-kill him. The glass shattered, bloodying his hands even further, but Lestrade could still see the engraving on the plaque as it fell with the pieces onto the bloody floor.

_Presented to S. Anderson for research, 2010_

Lestrade swallowed bile in the back of his throat and turned around to face the now lifeless corpse lying on the floor.

Even semi-rotted with a smashed skull, the man on the floor was still identifiable. The dark mop of hair, now thick with even darker blood barely covered Anderson's lifeless face.

"Shit." Lestrade muttered, his mangled, bleeding arm almost forgotten as he stared at the unmoving cadaver of his late colleague. Lestrade had never liked Anderson, Sherlock was right, the man had been a bloody idiot, but... _Fuck_. How many people had to die today? How many people were already gone? How many would be dead before he saw them again? His thoughts flashed from Donovan to Sherlock and John to the few friends he'd had left.

Lestrade sat on the edge of the desk, alone and silent for what felt like hours before he remembered his injured arm. He cursed again and pulled his belt off, pulling it tightly around his arm just above the elbow and wincing as he felt his arm start to go numb.

Get to Baker Street. If anyone was still alive, they'd be there.

* * *

Sebastian Moran touched the vulnerable face of his former employer.

Jim Moriarty, once the happy young psychopath Sebastian had fallen in love with, had been deep in a coma for two years since shooting himself to persuade that bastard Sherlock Holmes to kill himself. And it hadn't even worked. The consulting detective was back from the dead and more successful than ever while Jim wasted away in a hospital bed.

He was just a shell now, barely a man at all. Other than spikes on the monitoring systems, Jim could have been dead. Sebastian refused to give up on him. He owed Jim his life and if there was even the smallest chance that waiting around a hospital bed for a few hours a week would make any difference to that, Sebastian would take it.

After a few failed attempts at killing Holmes himself when the detective was still presumed dead, Sebastian had gone freelance. It didn't suit him, really. He preferred one boss, not a long list of rich scumbags killing over pride and scandal, the sort of guys he and Jim would have enjoyed torturing a few years ago. Not that Sebastian was selective. He'd do it, just not with quite as much enjoyment as when he'd had a good reason.

And he served as a bodyguard for the barely alive corpse of a man lying in bed in the private hospital. Even though most of the world had accepted Jim Moriarty as a hoax, a man who'd been that powerful would always have _some_ enemies.

Sebastian pushed his grey-flecked blonde hair out of his face and took the brakes off the hospital bed. He wasn't going to leave Jim behind, not after this long, even with the insanity happening outside. He had an ambulance waiting outside filled with all the medical equipment they'd need and he'd drive to one of Jim's old places out in the country where there'd be less zombies.

Pity really. If he didn't have such a strong bond with Jim, Sebastian would have enjoyed staying in London just to kill them. It would have been fun. If things were different, he knew Jim would have been amused by it too.

"Ah well." He muttered, pushing the bed down the corridor to the lift. "Back t' work."

* * *

One of the few remaining shop employees had shut Mrs Hudson, a young man and a teenage girl in the cleaner's cupboard when the zombies had broken through the glass front of the supermarket. Seconds after they'd heard his screams. The silence after a few seconds was worse than the yelps. The girl had started to cry and the young man was trying to comfort her but Mrs Hudson was completely frozen.

She kept wondering when her boys were going to save her. Sherlock and John would never leave her here. But what if something had already happened to them? What if they couldn't find her in here?

There were sounds of a gun firing then the sickening noise of the zombies moving away from the doors, dragging their deadened limbs away from the door. Mrs Hudson didn't know whether to be relieved or sad that yet another of the poor people outside the cupboard was dead.

There was more banging on the door, faster and harder than before, and the young man and the girl both cowered back against the wall. Mrs Hudson picked up a metal-handled mop from the shelf and stood up. Someone had to defend them.

The door flew open and Mrs Hudson swung the mop at the first figure that came through.

There was a curse and the figure fell backwards. They stood up again, holding its hand to its cheek.

"Was that really necessary, Mrs Hudson?" A deep voice said irritably.

"Sherlock! Oh, I'm sorry, those... Those things were banging on the door and..." She practically fell on him, leaning into his shoulder.

John leant in. "Good hit though." He grinned and Sherlock turned and glared at him.

"Come on then, we don't have much time before more of them come."

* * *

Mycroft sat on the front step of a building near the two pieces of Anthea's lifeless corpse and blinked slowly. He could carry on to his own house but it was huge and... Well, he wasn't sure he wanted to be alone after what he'd just had to do. It was to first time he'd been so unsure about anything in years.

But the only other option was Baker Street. As much as Mycroft wanted to ignore it, Sherlock already hated him without them having to stay in that tiny flat together with no way out. And god only knew how much John Watson resented him. He'd made too many mistakes to consider going to find his brother yet. Baker Street was miles away now anyway.

Mycroft stood up unsteadily and started to walk down the street, unsure of where he was actually going, just knowing that he couldn't stay sat there for any longer.


	4. Last Resort

**Most of this has been written in that horrible state of pre-migraine. You know, that sort of not all there, a bit dazed sensation. So I apologise if it doesn't make sense or goes a bit OOC.**

**I'd appreciate some kind of feedback on this if you've got time. Thanks.**

* * *

John turned the corner of the aisle, gun up in front of him.

"None here." He whispered, turning to Sherlock who was carrying Mrs Hudson, who had gone silent with shock. The girl and the young man followed nervously behind them. They hadn't questioned the two blood covered, gun and machete wielding apparent madmen who'd broken into the zombie-filled supermarket for a second. The girl sniffed and wiped her eyes.

"Sh." Sherlock hissed at her, eyes narrowing. The girl sniffed again, quieter this time but nodded.

They walked down the aisle as quickly and quietly as possible, trying to avoid tripping over fallen baskets or stepping in the pools of congealing blood that seemed to have flooded most of the floor. Even Sherlock seemed slightly repulsed by the amount of deaths that had taken place in this single shop.

They were nearly at the door now, John could see, the one they'd come in through after seeing the amount of zombies banging at the glass at the front. John checked around another corner and, not seeing any, ran into the next aisle.

The girl whimpered and Sherlock span round, pushing John away from her and the tea bags he'd been shoving desperately into the top of his bag. She was still staring at the floor, shaking with fear.

"What's wrong?"

"She's been bitten. John, shoot her."

"Wait a minute," the young man said . "She's been with us for over an hour in that cupboard, there's nothing wrong!"

"Yet. It takes a while for it to take effect. I was stupid for not noticing it before."

"Sherlock, you can't just go and accuse people of... Fuck."

The girl had looked up sharply, her previously blue eyes turned pale and /hungry/.

She was frozen to the spot, mouth open as if unable to decide who to kill first.

"I suggest you move." Sherlock hissed at the boy as John raised his gun slowly so not to provoke the newly-turned zombie.

"What is wrong with you people?! There's nothing wrong with..." He stopped abruptly as she turned to face him, attracted by the loud protest. "Chloe?"

The zombie lunged at him. He tried to move but he was too slow, the zombie clamping its jaws on the side of his neck. Blood spurted from the wound and he screamed, the cries quickly turning into inhuman croaks and gurgles as his throat was torn out

John finally fired, killing her before she could turn on them. The doctor leant down next to the boy. Blood poured from the massive hole in his neck and his face bore a terrified expression.

"I'm so sorry." John whispered, pressing the gun to the dying boy's temple and putting him out of his misery before he drowned in his own blood.

* * *

Lestrade was staggering before he got anywhere near Baker Street. Even with the belt tied round his arm, he was losing blood fast from the bite.

He fell as he got to the corner, cutting his knees on broken glass from a shattered bottle. Lestrade managed to crawl a few more metres before weakness overcame him. He collapsed, darkness tugging at the edges of his vision.

"Greg!" He heard someone yell. He looked around slowly. John Watson was running down the street towards him.

"Well get up then!" Sherlock was with John, somewhere just out of sight.

"Sherlock, don't be rude." And their landlady, Mrs Hudson, speaking very quietly, shaking voice failing to mask an underlying terror. Lestrade began to think this was some kind of blood-loss or possibly bite-induced hallucination.

"He's been bitten." Sherlock said slowly.

"Yeah." Lestrade whispered, even though he knew it wasn't a question.

"He's going to turn into one of them." Sherlock said bluntly and Lestrade heard him walking away.

It didn't seem to bother John, who pulled him upright and practically dragged him up to the flat. He let Lestrade collapse in a chair and went into the kitchen with Sherlock.

Donovan rushed over to him.

"Are you ok, Greg?"

"Get back, Donovan." Sherlock said.

She saw the look in Sherlock's eyes. "What are you going to do to him?"

"Shoot him. He's going to turn into one of them."

"Sherlock, wait!" John interrupted.

"John," Sherlock said warningly. "Don't let sentiment get in the way of the facts. You should have left him outside. He'll be dead, then he'll be a zombie. We have to kill him before that happens." The detective picked up John's gun and took off the safety. Lestrade watched but didn't speak to object.

"Greg, he's going to kill you." Donovan protested.

"Yeah, I noticed." Lestrade wasn't going to stop Sherlock. He was going to die anyway, even if Donovan couldn't tell. He'd spent most of his life trying to help people and this was how the world had chosen to repay him. Soon he'd be nothing more than an animal and he didn't want to last long enough for that to happen.

"Aren't you going to stop him?" She said, not just to Lestrade.

"Sherlock, we can at least try something else." John said, pushing the gun down to face the floor. "Haven't enough people died today?"

"Go on then." Sherlock seemed half attentive and half impatient, hands subconsciously checking the gun.

"The infection hasn't spread yet, otherwise he would have turned, right?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Cut his arm off."

"_What_?" Donovan said in disbelief.

"That could work."

"Don't sound so surprised, Sherlock."

"Aren't you going to ask Greg what he thinks of this brilliant plan?" Donovan asked indignantly.

Sherlock glared at her for a second then turned enquiringly to Lestrade, who'd obviously been trying to keep out of the argument. Lestrade shook his head shakily and didn't speak.

"Do you want to live?" Sherlock said bluntly.

Lestrade just shrugged.

"Oh come on, be interesting! You're slowly turning into a zombie, say something inspired before I cut your head off!" Sherlock said, back to his usual excitement at the possibility of death.

"I don't know."

"What to say or if you want to live?" Donovan said, trying to hide terror behind sarcasm.

Lestrade shrugged again.

"Please tell me you're not seriously considering letting the freak and his boyfriend try to murder you."

"Still not gay."

"Shut up, John." Donovan snapped.

"We aren't going to kill _him_, sergeant." Sherlock muttered. "Someone else in the room, perhaps..."

"Shut up." John glared at them. "You're acting like kids, both of you. Greg, you can either let us try this and maybe live or definitely die and Sherlock can cut you apart."

Lestrade looked up at them. "I don't know, alright? What do I have left to live for? My family, my friends, everyone's dead! What makes you think we're going to survive?!"

"Probability suggests not." Sherlock shrugged. "But I can study what turns people. We can stop this." He said with ironlike conviction.

"You really believe that?"

"Yes." Sherlock said and John nodded.

"Do it." He whispered shakily, looking away.

Sherlock grinned wickedly and wiped the blade of the machete clean on the edge of his ruined shirt.

"Not with that." John said quickly. "It could still have blood on it. Haven't you got some other deadly weapon lying around that we can use?"

Sherlock grinned again. "Obviously."

Lestrade was too weak to even object to the idea of Sherlock assimilating more implements of death.

John frowned. "Better find them quickly."

Sherlock nodded and Lestrade heard him run upstairs. John went and fetched a small case. When he opened it, Lestrade saw bandages and needles and other miscellaneous looking medical implements. Everything suddenly became real again, slamming back into his head after it had been slowly drifting away.

Sherlock came back down carrying a hacksaw in one hand and what looked like a cutlass in the other. Why the hell did Sherlock have a cutlass? Lestrade remembered the case that had involved a machete but a _cutlass_? He'd probably be happier not knowing.

"You keep those things in your _bedroom_?" John looked at him in disbelief.

"Of course not," Sherlock scoffed. "I keep them in yours."

John glared at him. "I don't believe... Oh, forget it, just help me with this."

John pulled the belt around Lestrade's arm tighter. "Greg, if there was any other way..."

"Just get on with it." The detective inspector murmured.

"Bite down on this." John said, putting a rolled up tea towel in Lestrade's mouth.

For one of the few times since they'd met several years ago, Lestrade could see that John must have been good at his job when he'd been in the army.

John picked up a few things from the case and Sherlock examined the blade of his cutlass.

"Mrs Hudson?"

"Yes dear?" The landlady asked with a shaking voice.

"You might not want to stay in here." John said quietly.

Mrs Hudson shook her head. "I've seen worse today."

Sherlock shrugged and lifted the cutlass. "Alright then. John, Donovan, hold him down."


	5. Chapter 5

**Happy Birthday Rupert Graves! And apologies for mutilating your wonderful character on this joyous occasion.**

**Sorry there was no update last week, I was in Devon on a geology field trip all week. Had a laugh and I did get a decent amount of writing done in the ridiculous amount of time spent travelling so hopefully no more late updates for a while.**

**And I know I'm begging but could someone ****_please_**** review this? I need to know if I'm getting it right or how I can improve it. Even just one word would be appreciated.**

**Usual warnings apply**

* * *

There were more zombies around here, Mycroft noticed. Up until a few streets back, Mycroft hadn't encountered many other than a few loners he'd managed to avoid.

That could mean that they'd managed to break into the bunker but Mycroft didn't want to think about that. It just meant more of the people he was supposed to be in charge of were dead. That meant he had to blackmail and bribe even more people if this madness ever ended. _When_ this ended. Although hopefully these theoretical dead would include the various bastards he'd at some point attempted to assassinate.

It was another ten minutes of hiding behind cars and sneaking past the steadily increasing packs of zombies before Mycroft noticed that he'd been instinctually heading towards Baker Street. He cursed under his breath but carried on walking, there was no sense in turning back now, he was too close. He knew he'd be safe there, primarily because Sherlock's landlady would probably stop them from shooting him.

He wondered distractedly if the packs of zombies were getting more frequent because Sherlock had done something to upset them. It wouldn't have surprised him.

Mycroft almost started to run when he finally turned to corner onto Baker Street but that would have been irrational. One of the zombies would undoubtably have noticed him and he'd already got too far to let himself get sloppy.

Zombies crowded outside the door to the flat and Mycroft cursed. His brother must have done _something_ to attract all of these, it couldn't just be luck.

The older Holmes drew his sword as he approached but the creatures were too focused on scratching pointlessly on the door to sense him. Mycroft hoped that one of the inhabitants of 221b would have had the sense to barricade the door by now, even if it made it harder for him to get in. Somehow he doubted it. Despite the fact that it had been almost four years since his brother had been sat in Buckingham Palace wearing only a sheet, Mycroft doubted he or John would have acquired enough sense to lock the door.

Mycroft realised that he hadn't even considered the eventuality that Sherlock or his friends could have died with what now appeared to be the majority of the population of London. Sentiment had clouded his judgement.

Although the fact that the zombies were still attacking the door confirmed his assumption had been correct. They wouldn't be fighting so hard to get to a corpse.

Mycroft took his gun from his suit and fired the remaining three rounds, each hitting one of the monsters in the head. as much as Sherlock insulted Mycroft for his laziness, he hadn't gotten this far in life by sitting behind a desk.

The shots gained him the attention of the others. These ones were faster than the ones at the bunker and started to run at him. Mycroft just sighed in a vaguely bored way and raised his sword. It had been a very long day.

* * *

Even getting out of the hospital was treacherous. Sebastian had shot twelve of them out in the various corridors he'd pushed the hospital bed down and more in the lobby, along with a few soldiers who'd refused to let him out of the building. He knew they were just doing their jobs but if their jobs were bloody stupid, it wasn't his fault. They shouldn't be scared, they should be fighting the undead bastards, even if it was against orders.

Through all the gunshots and movements Jim slept on, still seemingly oblivious to the violence around him that he would have loved. He was technically brain dead, what had Sebastian been expecting? The sniper muttered curses to himself as he attached the hospital bed to the floor of the ambulance.

"Wait!" A woman's voice screeched as Sebastian was about to close the door. He opened it slightly. "What?"

A young woman stopped just outside the ambulance, panting.

"What d'you want?"

"Where are you going?"

"Anywhere but London." Sebastian replied honestly.

"I... Uh... Can I come?"

"You a doctor?" Sebastian said thoughtfully, looking at her white coat. He _could_ look after Jim himself but having someone who was actually qualified to do what needed doing would be good if he wanted to go and kill some zombies.

"N...No. I work... I _worked_," she corrected. "In the morgue."

"Close enough." Sebastian shrugged. "Get in."

"T... thank you!" She stammered.

"Wha'ever. Just hurry up."

She nodded and ran around to the passenger side of the front of the ambulance. Sebastian slammed the doors shut and clambered over into the driver's seat.

"Who're you then?" He said, starting the ambulance.

"Molly Hooper."

Sebastian's expression froze. Over a million people in London and he was stuck in the apocalypse with a woman he'd once been told to kill. Small world...

* * *

They all heard the shots but the only person who responded was Donovan, John and Sherlock both working to remove Lestrade's bitten arm as quickly as possible and Mrs Hudson seemingly in some kind of trance. The sergeant ran to the window and leant out.

"There's a man out there fighting zombies with an umbrella!"

John and Sherlock exchanged a quick glance.

"Mycroft." The doctor muttered through the needle between his teeth, not pausing from the makeshift surgery. John had worked through far worse.

"Leave him." Sherlock said, equally as bluntly.

"But..."

"My brother deserves everything he gets, Sergeant Donovan." Sherlock turned to John, glancing quickly at Lestrade and raising an eyebrow questioningly.

"Put pressure on it." John said quietly then glanced at Donovan. "Sherlock's right."

There was knocking on the door but John and Sherlock continued to ignore it.

"_You_ have a brother?"

"Keep up, Donovan, even Lestrade already knew that."

Through the pain and weakness, the detective inspector looked slightly embarrassed but the expression vanished when Sherlock picked up a pair of bolt-cutters that been leant on the wall by the door. Lestrade hadn't dared asked why; he'd reached a point where he didn't even want to know about the detective's obviously-criminal methods of acquiring information.

Lestrade's face blanched as Sherlock raised the bolt cutters to the wound that reached halfway through his arm. He bit down on the tea towel hard as the blades crunched through the middle of his humerus. He was obviously trying not to scream and curse, tears flowing down his face uncontrollably.

"Oh come on, Lestrade, it isn't that bad." Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "You're imagining at least half of that pain."

"Sherlock." John warned.

Donovan looked away again. She'd seen hundreds of bodies in various states of mutilation and living people in states just as bad but somehow it being Greg being cut up by the Freak meant she couldn't force herself to watch.

The knocking elevated to banging and Sherlock stood up and sprinted to the window.

"Piss off, Mycroft!" He yelled then ran back to John and Lestrade.

"Stop being childish, Sherlock! Let me in!"

"No!" Sherlock shouted.

Donovan turned. "For god sake Freak, open the door."

There were a few seconds of quiet where the only sounds were Lestrade's ragged, agonised breathing as John started to clean up the mess of broken skin and torn muscle that remained of the detective inspector's left arm.

Donovan stopped glaring at Sherlock and started towards the door.

"If you let him in, I will shoot you." Sherlock said harshly.

"Why? He's your _family_!"

"Stop fighting! Please!" Mrs Hudson said before Sherlock could decide to kill the sergeant. "Let your brother in."

Sherlock glared coldly at her. "He probably started this hell to get a few more votes for whoever he finds the least annoying!"

"Sherlock." She said persistently, not needing to continue as the consulting detective stalked sulkily towards the stairs.

"If he's annoying I'm feeding him to the zombies outside." He paused as he felt the other inhabitants of the room staring at him and added defensively: "For science, obviously. I need to know how these creatures work if I'm going to cure them."

Sherlock wandered down the stairs moodily and opened the door, glaring at his brother stood covered in blood on the doorstep.

"Have you finally come to your senses?"

"What do you think?" Sherlock snapped.

"Your landlady made you let me in."

"And your assistant is dead."

Mycroft nodded curtly.

The brothers walked back up the stairs, John and Donovan lifting Lestrade's now-barely-conscious form onto the sofa.

Mycroft froze as he entered the room, seeing the blood all over the floor and clothes of the two flatmates and the severed arm on the floor next to the table of Sherlock's experiments and box of medical supplies.

"What in the name of god have you been _doing_ in here?!"


	6. Chapter 6

**Sorry for the super-late update. Among other things, I've had a bunch of shit to deal with these last few weeks so writing hasn't really been at the front of my mind.**

**I was actually going for something more graphic in those last chapters but it didn't play out. I'll try harder next time. Also I forgot about 28 Days Later with the 'zombies in London' thing but since they're not ****_technically_**** zombies it's probably an acceptable mistake...**

**I HAVE REVIEWS! *falls onto ground in Wayne's World style 'We're-not-worthy' pose***

**SeverusDmitri18: s'probably going to get a bit heavier over the next few chapters... **

**Ganondorf-Lover: they're going to be in it more soon :)**

* * *

"What in the name of god have you been doing in here?!"

"We've been removing Detective Inspector Lestrade's arm, what does it look like?"

"Why?!"

"I was bitten." Lestrade whispered barely audibly.

Mycroft stared down at Lestrade's pale face then whirled round to face his brother.

"So you decided to do an _experiment_ on a respected detective inspector?" He said in a tone that was at least half horror. John had never heard Mycroft use so much emotion that wasn't his usual smugness.

"Would've died..." Lestrade murmured, passing out before he could finish the thought.

John's heart skipped a beat and he cursed. "He's gone into shock."

"I wish I could bring myself to be surprised." Mycroft said, quickly recomposing himself and glaring at his brother.

"It was my idea, Mycroft," John fought the urge to make his own irritable remark and lost. "And before you start, I'd love to hear what you would have done. Maybe left him outside to get eaten?"

Mycroft tried to say something then obviously thought better of it, sitting down at the chair opposite the one covered in blood, pushing several of Sherlock's experiments out of the way.

"Well done, Doctor Watson." He said very quietly, his voice solemn. The older Holmes seemed to sink into his thoughts, leant on the table with his head resting in his hands.

Sherlock turned and stared at John, mouthing 'well done?' with an expression of disbelief.

Donovan coughed quietly.

"What now?" Sherlock snapped.

"Aren't you going to do anything with..." Donovan gestured at the severed arm on the floor with a vaguely disgusted expression.

"That might actually be a good idea, Sherlock." John said with the usual mild sarcasm he had to use with his friend, wandering towards the stairs to get a blanket for Lestrade from upstairs.

Sherlock picked up Lestrade's arm by the hand, revelling in Donovan's obvious disgust. He pulled the blood-caked watch from the wrist and dropped it in a clear spot on the table between experiments He'd need all the blood samples he could get from Lestrade and whatever zombie had bitten him.

Sherlock wandered into the kitchen and shuffled around the objects in the fridge, making a gap between various jars of jam and other things and dropped the arm onto a shelf. John would be angry but if he was going to have any chance of curing this plague like he said he would, Sherlock needed something to base the research on. Maybe he actually would be able to do something about this, no matter how small the chance.

* * *

_Several Hours Later_

Sebastian yawned quietly and noticed Molly looking at him from the passenger seat, concerned.

"Are you ok?"

"'M fine." He muttered with another yawn, keeping his eyes on the dark country road ahead of the ambulance. They'd been driving in an uncomfortable silence for several hours and Sebastian had had a long few days. He wanted to lay down somewhere with a decent film and drink until he passed out but he had to get to Jim's house way out in the middle of Devon before he could do that. It was taking the piss to get there. At least there weren't enough people out here for there to be enough zombies to be a threat to Jim.

"Um... Do you want me to drive for a while?"

"Nah. Nearly there now." He shrugged, pushing his hair out of his face with one hand. He looked into the distance to a large, black shape silhouetted against the dark blue sky. Finally.

Sebastian was tempted to put his foot down and go as fast as he could the rest of the way to the old manor house but he restrained himself. God only knew what would be on these roads at night and he didn't want to risk hurting Jim any worse.

His eyes left the twisting road for a second to glance back at Jim. He didn't look better or worse for the rough journey and Sebastian sighed before looking back at the road. Some part of him hoped that there'd be some change to the younger man's condition after being brought out of the sterile, boring environment of the hospital but still there was nothing. No change, as usual.

Molly's gaze followed his to look at Jim. Her eyes widened with a mixture of shock and horror when she recognised him.

"Oh." She said in a very quiet, terrified voice.

* * *

John sighed. He'd known from the second Mycroft had looked up from those hours of silent thought that whatever he was about to say would be trouble. Sherlock had chosen to completely blank out his brother and continue with whatever strange experiment he was doing with blood from Lestrade's arm so the older Holmes had chosen to irritate John instead.

"And how do you know this theory of yours has worked, Doctor Watson? How do you know that he isn't going to turn anyway?"

"I don't," John sighed. "But he'd cut off the circulation in his arm and it was still a fairly short amount of time since he was bitten when we found him."

"Now you see why I'm being perfectly reasonable in asking you to restrain him."

"The infection hasn't spread. If it had, he would have died by now, according to Sherlock." Who'd been working the entire time his brother had been sulking, which made a change.

"And my brother is an expert on this subject?"

"Not an expert no, but he seems to know more than you."

Mycroft gave him a cold, analytical stare for a few seconds. "You were in the army. If they'd caught a terrorist, no matter how injured, you wouldn't just leave them in bed. You'd tie them there."

"Greg isn't our enemy." John said quietly, knowing he'd lost.

"Those creatures outside are. Do you think _hope_ can stop him from turning?"

John glared up at Mycroft. "I won't let you kill him."

"I was never going to ask you to," Mycroft said, shaking his head as if he was talking to a misbehaving child. "I simply asked you to restrain him. Both DI Lestrade and Sergeant Donovan presumably have a pair of handcuffs, not to mention whatever Sherlock will have stolen from both of them in the past."

John nodded grudgingly. It wasn't a particularly outrageous request, in fact John would have probably done it himself eventually, but he hated the fact that Mycroft was right.

"Fine. Lock him up." He said quietly to avoid Donovan hearing. "You're the one who's going to have to keep an eye on him though, I have other things to do."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow and started to say something but noticed the murderous look in John's eyes and stopped before he could infuriate the former-soldier any more. He nodded curtly. "Fine."

* * *

**More AN: my friend has threatened me about killing characters. I'm genuinely scared so MOST of them won't die...**


	7. Chapter 7

**Sorry for being a few days late again but this is a very long chapter so it sort of makes up for that. I'm also on holiday so think yourselves lucky you've got one at all with this crappy wifi. (I was going to upload this last night but it died...)**

**My friend, (who is the one who threatened me about character death) is, ironically, responsible for giving me the idea for the details of the death in this chapter.**

**I have officially given up on chapter titles.**

* * *

Sebastian's face stiffened. He'd known Molly would find out about Jim eventually but he'd hoped it would be at least after they'd actually arrived at the house.

"What... What happened to him?" She said nervously, not taking her eyes off Jim.

Sebastian muttered something inaudible.

"Um..."

"He shot himself in the head." He repeated through gritted teeth, just loud enough for her to hear. "Would've thought Holmes would tell you that."

Molly looked out of the window, embarrassed. "He never tells me anything. And I've barely even seen Jim... Rich... Um, whatever his name is... Since we broke up."

"Jim." He said bluntly.

"Did he really kill all those people?" She whispered after a few seconds of tense silence.

"Not alone." Sebastian smirked.

"Oh." Molly said again, shuffling further away from him.

"Chill out, I've got better things to do than kill you. I wasn't messing when I asked if you were a doctor."

"What... What do you want me to do?"

"Look after Jimmy. Don't know if you've noticed but I ain't exactly trained for that shit."

Molly nodded silently. She couldn't exactly run, even if she wanted to. Even if she wasn't locked in a moving ambulance with two killers in the middle of nowhere, she wouldn't want to go back to London. She dreaded what would have happened to Sherlock and John by now, not even entertaining the idea that they could have avoided the... Zombies... That were killing the city.

The ambulance finally crunched to a stop just outside the ancient manor house and Sebastian got out, wandering to the huge doors and unlocking them with an old key.

Molly opened the door of the ambulance slowly and got out, looking at the killer nervously.

"Get inside then. Nothing in there's gonna kill you."

She stared out across the dark moors. "Is something going to kill me out here?"

Sebastian shrugged and grinned at her. "Dunno. Sheep, maybe?"

Molly tried to smile back, if only to be polite, but it came out as more of a grimace.

Sebastian walked back to the ambulance and unlocked the doors, taking the brakes off the hospital bed.

"Just a bit longer, Jimmy." He whispered, obviously not meaning for Molly to hear.

He pushed the bed into the house and Molly followed silently, barely taking her eyes off the comatose crime lord. Sebastian could feel the fear radiating off her and smiled slightly. Three years and Jim still had this effect on at least one person. She seemed more terrified of them than she was of the zombies outside. That was an achievement.

"There's a room upstairs, first on the the left. Y'can sleep there. Drop your stuff up there an' then come and help me set up Jim's stuff."

Molly nodded and walked up the wooden stairs as quietly as she could, glad to be away from the two murderers for a few minutes.

The room was almost as big as her tiny flat back in London and even had what looked like an en suite on one side. The walls were painted white which had turned light yellow from sunlight and dust. The furniture was on the expensive side of 'normal'. It was nice, and fairly far away from where Sebastian had been heading when he told her to come up here.

Molly put her coat and work bag on the bed and wandered out of the room again, not thinking to check her phone. She'd left it on silent after a torturously long meeting what felt like months ago but was just that morning.

That was why she didn't notice yet another message flash up on the screen; 'Are you alive? SH'.

* * *

Mycroft sat on the side of the bath watching intently as the unconscious detective-inspector inhaled and exhaled unevenly.

Lestrade was handcuffed to a pipe in the bathroom of 221b. Sherlock had insisted that they put him in there under the pretence that he didn't want to get more bloodstains on the furniture although it seemed mostly for Mrs Hudson's benefit, who was obviously uncomfortable even being in the same room as Lestrade. Not that Mycroft blamed her. He wasn't overly fond of the concept of being within biting distance of a man who could turn into a monster with every desire to eat him either. As it was his idea, however, Mycroft had to admit, internally at least, that it was only fair he was given the first watch.

Occasionally Lestrade's eyelids flickered and Mycroft thought he might be awake but quickly discerned it was just the DI dreaming. It was something particularly vivid, judging by the way his hand kept clenching and unclenching and the way his body twitched every so often.

Mycroft had to pity him. It had been obvious from the few seconds Mycroft had seen Lestrade conscious and the tortured expressions forming on his face since then that whatever he'd seen and done in the past twenty four hours was going to leave significant and probably permanent psychological trauma. It would have been a better idea for John to have let him die.

There was a sharp, panicked breath and a clang as Lestrade tried to pull his arm away from the pipe. His eyes snapped open and immediately turned to Mycroft.

"Fucking typical." He whispered hoarsely, grimacing slightly when he sat up as the cuffs dug into his wrist.

"Lovely to see you awake, DI Lestrade."

"Piss off."

Mycroft had no doubt that if he'd had his hand free, Lestrade would have punched him in the face. Not without good reason, either.

"That's not going to happen, Gregory."

"Oh, bloody perfect. I've been bitten by a fucking zombie, had my arm hacked off with bolt cutters and now, of all the seven billion people in this fucking world, I'm stuck in the apocalypse with _you_." His head fell back against the wall.

* * *

Sherlock stood up and looked around the room. It appeared that he'd been talking to himself again. It was dark outside so he assumed that everyone else must have gone to bed.

But sleep was boring and he had work to do. He had to get to St Bart's. He needed at least a better microscope, not to mention whatever other equipment from the hospital he could fit in the bag he'd 'borrowed' from John, to continue his research. And Molly still wasn't answering her phone. He knew that if she was still alive she'd probably not even have left the morgue for the night, the phone signal was always bad in there. Although there was no disillusioning himself. Probability alone said that she was dead. It had to be worth looking though.

Sherlock pulled on his coat and tied his scarf round his neck, still wearing his bloody clothes from earlier in the day underneath.

John would be sleeping with his gun tonight and it appeared that Mycroft had taken the cutlass and saw with him upstairs, whether that be for self defence or the far more likely option of getting them away from his younger brother remained to be seen. Sherlock wasn't worried. At this point in time he had various kinds of both firearms and guerrilla weaponry hidden in ingenious places.

He wandered down the stairs as quietly as he could, not wanting to wake Mrs Hudson, and searched under the things in the cupboard under the stairs for the gun and silencer he'd wrestled from an assassin several months ago. He'd already started down the street when he heard the door open again.

"Where do you think you're going, Freak?"

Sherlock grimaced. Not quietly enough, apparently.

"Out, Sergeant Donovan. I would think that would be obvious." He said, not turning to face her to give her the smug satisfaction of his irritation.

"It's dark out here."

"Obviously." Sherlock said, starting to walk again. He heard Donovan starting to follow him. Typical.

"Where are you going?"

"St Bart's, if you must know." He raised the gun in front of him as he was about to turn the corner, unsure what would be around the other side. He walked in silence, the only sound was Donovan's loud footsteps and nervous breathing.

"Where the hell did you get the gun, freak?"

He shrugged. "Before you accuse me of something ridiculous, _I_ haven't killed anyone with it."

"But someone has?"

"Obviously. It's a _gun_."

There were a few cars, mostly cabs, with their doors open from where the drivers had tried to run. It was obvious few had been successful from the patches of bloodstained tarmac and miscellaneous bones stripped clean of whatever muscle and flesh may once have covered them.

Sherlock stepped back into the shadows quickly and Donovan copied him, following where he was looking.

A zombie was staggering through the street, showing no particular destination. It turned and looked straight at them and Donovan stopped breathing. Sherlock didn't seem to care, just kept his eyes towards it and his gun in hand. Somewhere on the other side of the street a cat yowled and ran across the road right in front of it. The zombie leant down, somehow managing to catch it between its sluggish hands. It took a bite from the panicked creature's side, ignoring the claws digging deep into its face.

"Well?" Donovan muttered and Sherlock didn't miss the disgust in her voice.

"Well what?"

"Aren't you going to kill it?"

"Of course not. Then there'll be more of them. Idiot." Sherlock hissed, shaking his head and stalking past the dead man shovelling blood-covered pieces of furry meat between its decaying lips.

"Why the hell are you going to a hospital when you told us to stay away?" Donovan said after another few minutes walking. "They're _full_ of zombies."

"I also told you that I was going to find a cure. That's impossible with only a microscope and a human subject."

"That's Greg you're talking about! Is that all he is to you? A bloody test subject?"

Sherlock turned and stared even more coldly than usual at her.

"Oh god, I'm right, aren't I? He's always trusted you, even when you were _dead_ and you just think he's another corpse for you to microwave!"

Lestrade was one of Sherlock's oldest acquaintances, even if they'd never been _friends_ until John came around. Even before that though, he'd trusted the DI with his life. Donovan wouldn't believe that with her unfeasibly narrow-minded, unshakable and completely wrong opinions of him, so Sherlock wouldn't waste his breath. He walked on ahead of her.

Donovan stepped in front of him before he could get a more than a few steps.

"You don't just get to walk aw..." Donovan froze mid-sentence as Sherlock quickly raised the gun and pulled the trigger. The bullet missed her by millimetres, cutting off several hairs and spraying her with blood from the zombie that had been just behind her, about to attack. Her mouth opened and shut silently in shock.

"Shut up unless you want to get eaten." Sherlock said, creeping towards corner that led to the hospital slowly, gun still raised ahead of him, keeping an eye out for the zombies. There were none visible on this stretch of road but that would change the second he got inside St Bart's. The disease, which he'd found to be some kind of virus, would spread quickly in an area with so many people who were unable to flee.

Donovan was still following him. He'd hoped that almost shooting her would scare her into going back to Baker Street but apparently not.

Sherlock took the keys he'd 'borrowed' from Stamford years ago from his pocket and unlocked the fire door. He wandered through cautiously, gun still raised in front of him. He'd never admit it but he was silently dreading what he might find here. Stamford hadn't answered the texts Sherlock had sent either and Sherlock knew he had been working today. Mike had tolerated him better than everyone at the hospital except Molly, it would be a shame if he was dead.

Sherlock turned. "Go back to Baker Street, Sally."

"No. What if I run into some zombies? I don't have a gun, even if yours is evidence.

Sherlock shrugged and turned, heading for the morgue first. If Molly was here, dead or alive, she'd be there and some of the equipment he'd stolen at various times were hidden in several of the lockers meant for the morgue staff.

It was quiet on this corridor, too quiet. Sherlock observed the various blood spatters on the wall, arterial spray from human victims and the almost-black blood from where someone had tried to damage the zombies but only a couple of semi-decapitated corpses, no sign of the humans who obviously been either bitten or eaten. No-one could possibly still be alive... Sherlock cursed quietly as he realised how he'd been trying to fool himself. If Molly or Stamford were here when the zombies came, they'd be dead, there was no two ways about it.

"What's up?" Donovan said and Sherlock heard her step closer to him.

"Molly is dead." He whispered, surprised at the way his voice nearly cracked as he said it out loud. He blinked hard, trying to delete the deduction but somehow failing.

"What, you can tell from her blood on the walls?" Donovan said and Sherlock could hear the slight mocking edge in her voice.

Sherlock could tell it was just to spite him but his fingers still clenched involuntarily, reflexively squeezing the trigger of the gun hard enough to fire a shot at the door at the other end of the corridor.

The glass in the door shattered and Sherlock cursed at the loud noise. There was no point trying to be discreet now. Half of him wanted to shoot Donovan now and get it over with before she got them both killed but he gritted his teeth, a snarl forming on his face, and stalked towards the door.

He opened the door, not bothering to be quiet now, looking at every single part of the room before stepping in, gun still raised.

The papers from the nurses' station were scattered and there were several up turned wheelchairs and a bed blocking one of the wards. Sherlock peered inside, again seeing a worrying lack of people, alive or otherwise. That meant that someone had known in advance and evacuated or, more likely, the dead were in packs and elsewhere, at least for now. He wandered down a different corridor away from the morgue curiously.

The corridors were fairly dark now they were further into the building. A lot of the fluorescent strip lights had been dragged down and were hanging by their wires from the ceiling in the centre of the corridor.

Sherlock didn't think to check why the doors at the other end were locked. He assumed it was just some kind of regular emergency procedure he'd deleted at some point. He unlocked it with Stamford's keys and the first few zombies fell through, falling to the ground by Sherlock's feet after being leant on the doors for so long. He jumped away, starting to run before Donovan had even noticed what was going on.

"Other way!" He yelled, turning his head for a split second to look at the pack starting to chase after them. Donovan, after being behind him for the rest of the time, was now a few steps in front. The map of the hospital and anywhere safe opened up in his mind. The labs were the closest rooms with locks on the doors and most were near the morgue.

"Left!" Sherlock instructed and Donovan turned the corner.

Sherlock ran towards the lab, Donovan still a few steps ahead of him. He overtook her and rammed the door open with his shoulder.

"Shit." He murmured, unable to hold back his anger at the defeat, staggering back from the lab door.

Donovan stopped and turned into the room before Sherlock could stop her and the dead students lunged for her, one managing to seize the edge of her top. Sherlock grabbed her other arm and tried to pull her away but the others caught up, snatching her legs from under her and biting down hard as they tried to drag her away from the others.

"Help!" Sally managed to scream as Sherlock let go of her arm, falling away.

Blood spurted from her neck as one of the dead students sank his yellowing teeth onto her. The others pulled harder, trying to drag her squirming body away from their competition. Her free arm reached out for Sherlock again but one of the writhing mass of undead caught it before he could even consider going for it.

Her screams were turning into animalistic howls of agony and Sherlock heard something tear. Donovan shot Sherlock one final agonised, terrified look as the zombies pulled her body in half, glistening viscera and blood cascading to the floor into the desperate hands of the weaker zombies who instantly started to shovel the still-attached organs into their bloody mouths.

The detective finally shook himself out of shock, knowing that now they'd killed Donovan, they'd notice him. He stood up and ran, sprinting as fast as he could towards the morgue.

* * *

**So that happened. My only apology is for the death of an innocent (albeit fictional) cat. Assume what you like about Stamford for now. I haven't decided his fate yet. I'm not sure if I ruined this chapter with the end there but there's more to come...**


	8. Chapter 8

**This was already late then half the chapter got deleted and I had to rewrite it from memory. And then Skindred released a new song. And then LSOTDM finally came out. And then LSOTDM killed me repeatedly and mercilessly. So many excuses. **

**I also had to delay the thing you will all murder me for or this chapter would never get published...**

**Sorry.**

* * *

John's phone rang, waking him up.

He sat bolt upright and reached around for it on the table by his bed, hoping to god it was Harry calling to say she was alive but it was Sherlock's number up on the screen.

John's brain went into overdrive. Why would Sherlock be calling him from downstairs? Unless... Fuck. He'd have gone out to find Molly. And obviously, being a genius, that meant he didn't need any help from a man with actual experience in war-zones. But something serious had to have happened, otherwise he would have just texted.

John answered the phone nervously. "Yeah, Sherlock?"

"I'm at St Bart's." the detective said quietly, sounding slightly out of breath. "Donovan's dead."

"What?" John was a mixture of mostly shocked and slightly offended that Sherlock would take _Sally_ of all people instead of him.

"Sergeant Sally Donovan. Dead. Keep up John." Sherlock snapped, still keeping his voice low.

"Why? And why the hell are you at St Bart's?" He already knew the answer to the second part.

"She followed me. She wasn't fast enough and the zombies caught her. I was looking for Molly and Mike."

"What about you, are you..." He trailed off, unable to finish the sentence.

"Fine." He said and John didn't miss the hesitation.

"What?"

"I heard something. I think they're coming back."

"Where are you?"

"I'm lying in one of the fridges in the morgue."

John snorted slightly despite the situation.

"This isn't funny!" Sherlock hissed.

"Right, I'm coming." John said, getting out of bed and starting to pull his clothes on with one hand as he held his phone in the other.

"John?" Sherlock said quietly, his voice going hoarse in a similar way to just before he'd faked his death.

"Yeah?" John whispered, frozen to the spot.

"This isn't a call for help, it's a goodbye. I won't make it out of here."

"No. Not again, Sherlock."

"You can't come here. You'll get torn apart before you're anywhere near me."

"I can try..."

"You can't save everyone, John. You're a doctor, you know that." He paused, as if listening for something again. "I'd say that I'd see you later but we both know that would most likely be a lie." He said quietly, hanging up before John could speak again.

"Fuck." John muttered, running a hand through his greying hair. He stopped getting dressed and fell back onto his bed. This couldn't be happening, not again. He'd only just got Sherlock back and the stupid bastard had decided to go and get himself killed again. Yeah, keep that anger, that was the only way he'd stop himself from breaking down and crying.

As much as he wanted to go and find Sherlock, the idiot was right as usual. He couldn't save everyone. Hell, today he couldn't save anyone, not even his best friend. It didn't take a genius to realise that the hospital would be full of zombies and Sherlock was a bloody twat for thinking he could get anywhere near the place.

"For god sake, Sherlock." John muttered, falling back onto his bed, head in his hands. He was an idiot himself for thinking that Sherlock would be content just waiting. He ran a hand through his hair. He wasn't suicidal. He wouldn't go to try in vain to find Sherlock but they'd lost so many people, family, friends and strangers. And he wasn't sure he'd be able to cope with being stuck in a flat with Mycroft with only two other people.

John lay down again, his eyes screwed shut.

"Not again..." He whispered.

* * *

Molly glanced down at Jim Moriarty's unconscious form on the bed in front of her. It would be so easy to kill him, she doubted Sebastian would even notice if she did.

But as much as she hated him, she knew she didn't have it in her to kill someone, even a bastard like him. Even a man who probably wasn't even in there any more. It would stay on her conscience forever and she knew it would just drive her insane in the end, like some of the people she'd seen Sherlock catch after years of being on the run.

She sighed quietly and adjusted the IV bag hung next to the bed again, not wanting to have to come in here again until she absolutely had to. Sebastian watched her for a few seconds until he knew she was done then pulled on his leather jacket again.

"Where are you going?" Molly asked slightly nervously.

"Pub. It'll take more than the apocalypse for the bastards round here to stop sellin' beer." He said with absolute conviction.

She nodded.

"There's probably a Pot Noodle or something downstairs if you're hungry. I'll try and get some better food when I'm out."

Molly nodded again, following him out of the room and closing the door behind her.

"Dunno when I'll be back." Sebastian said, wandering down the stairs.

Molly watched him leave through the huge front doors and walked down the corridor. Her footsteps echoed through the old house. She wasn't hungry, even though she hasn't eaten since the biscuit she'd had with her coffee on her lunch break. With the sights she'd seen today, Molly doubted she'd ever be hungry again. She worked in a morgue and the bodies had put her off eating. She worked with _Sherlock_ and even that couldn't have prepared her for today.

* * *

In the fridge in the hospital, Sherlock let his face fall into his crossed arms.

He screwed his eyes shut and silently prayed that John wouldn't be stupid enough to try and find him. The soldier in John Watson was loyal but he wasn't a total idiot. At least Sherlock hoped he wasn't.

Sherlock reached into his coat for his gun but the pocket was empty. The detective cursed; it must have fallen out when he was running. Whatever small chance he'd had of escaping were wherever the gun was now, out in the corridors somewhere.

So he'd have to run. Run and /hope/. This was a new sensation for the last few days, not being sure of all of his decisions.

Maybe he should text Mycroft, just to say goodbye to his brother. No, that was a bad idea, Mycroft shunned sentiment, even if he had seemed genuinely happy when he'd found out Sherlock was alive after his fake suicide. He'd spoken to John, the second time he'd said goodbye to his friend over the phone. Molly... Well, by now he'd forced himself to admit that she would have answered her phone by now if she was alive. John would tell the others back at Baker Street.

Sherlock strained his ears for a sound that could indicate the zombies were outside but there was nothing. As slowly and as quietly as he could, he slid out of the fridge and sat up on the metal tray, quickly massaging some life into his cold-numbed hands.

It appeared the zombies had found some other prey to irritate. This was a working hospital filled with hundreds of staff, patients and visitors, it was unlikely they'd found _everyone_ yet. It wasn't definite, which was the main thing that annoyed him. Nothing with these damn creatures was definite. You couldn't deduce a diseased corpse, especially with the speed they were rotting. He supposed the decay was a positive thing; they wouldn't last as long if it continued at this speed, but Sherlock was infuriated by his inability to read them. Their thoughts were that of a shark. You looked at their movements, their faces and their hollow, white eyes and all there was was hunger. Machines, no longer people at all.

Sherlock wondered, as he sat there, if that was what John had meant about him that time. That all there was was one purpose, nothing else in there at all. Or at least not on display.

Sherlock stood up. There was no point dwelling on the past, especially not at a time like this.

He wandered slowly towards the door, not exactly fearing death but in no hurry for it to happen.

It was silent out in the corridor and there was no sign of any of the zombies yet.

Sherlock walked out into the corridor, passing the fragments of ripped clothes and pool of blood that was all that was left of Donovan after the zombies had got to her. He didn't look down, not enjoying the sight of his own failure, even if it was failure to save a woman he despised.

Down another corridor he'd just been chased through with still no sign of the pack that had been after him just minutes before.

This was... Unnerving, to say the least.

He briefly entertained the idea of going back to the morgue to find the equipment in his locker but quickly gave up that thought. He didn't want to risk going back to where he'd last heard the zombies. There was bravery and idiocy and going back there was pushing his luck to say the least.

He walked down more seemingly endless corridors, keeping one eye to the floor looking for his gun as he scanned the rest of the area around him for more creatures.

It was darker in the part of the hospital he walked into. He knew he couldn't get out the way he'd come. He didn't know how intelligent the zombies were but he had to assume they knew about him being there.

There was a fire exit just around the corner from where he was now and against what would usually be his better judgement he started to run. Clear corridor, not a sound other than his feet hitting the floor. He leapt around the corner, pushing off against the wall so not to lose momentum. The door was right ahead now. He didn't slow down and ran hard into the bar, the door opening on impact. He didn't quite believe he'd managed to get this far.

The car park was still full of the dead employees vehicles. It wouldn't take as much time to get home, at least, Sherlock thought, smirking as he saw the Kawasaki Ninja sat in the corner of the car-park.

* * *

**I start college again on Monday. Not sure what that will do to my writing but I thought I'd tell you anyway.**


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